


L'enfance

by Al_D_Baran



Series: aphfrweek2015 [1]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Ancient Rome, Childhood Friends, Childhood Sweethearts, Children, Cross-Posted on Tumblr, Golden Age of Piracy, Historical Hetalia, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, aphfrweek, its so fucking subtle if i didnt say it there u wouldnt know
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-18
Updated: 2015-07-18
Packaged: 2018-04-09 23:50:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4369097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Al_D_Baran/pseuds/Al_D_Baran
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>1/7. Aurelius (France) and Iulius (Spain) are innocent colonies of Rome, running around without a worry in the world... (part of a serie I did for the APHFRWEEK.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	L'enfance

**Author's Note:**

> Aurelius: Francis. Roman name for Francis. Means golden, covered with gold.
> 
> Iulius: Antonio. Ancient Roman form of Julius.
> 
> Romulus: Rome. Duh. One of the legendary founder of Rome.
> 
> I’m not all that much for name changes (I’m quite lazy) but that seemed to be a nice occasion to change them a bit. For the APHFRWEEK. If a miracle happen, there will be seven of those vaguely historical snippets. Anyway, hopefully you will all will enjoy this small fic ; w ;

Time is a slow thing. For children, everything is terribly long. Everyday can be a whole year, a whole adventure. Children spend their time playing, without a worry in the world, as they have all the time there is.

Aurelius and Iulius are no exception. The two boys run around markets place, purple togas flying in the wind as they giggled. They spend all their times together; being both the same age, both colonies of the Roman Empire, the little nations are barely ever seen without one another. Aurelius, though smaller and of a delicate build, always leads the duo, finding them problems with a supernatural ease. Iulius, for his part, though barely a few inches taller, with his darker hair and skin, follows with wonderful naivety, eyes sparkling as he listens to every whims of his friend.

Aurelius always play dumb once they are caught in the middle of their shenanigans. Pouty lips, rosy cheeks and sparkling purple eyes makes it all the more difficult to believe this sweet angel has done anything wrong. Eventually, no blame quite comes to them. They are children, barely out of infancy, raised by an absent, immature Empire; they are bound to act up.

Romulus tries to scold the both of them, uncaring of who started problems. The thunder of his voice will often make Aurelius cower, the child remembering all too well how the Republic has flown over his native land, spilling the blood, capturing a million of slaves. He remembers Vercingetorix, shamed, dragged behind a carriage, unshaven and dirty, left alone in a damp cell to die. The Arvern remembers people just like him, falling like little flies, the bodies of his brothers of other tribes lain there, lifeless now.

Iulius will always stand in front of him, a childish, pure need to protect rising into the boy’s heart. He roars like a small lion, fists balling. He too, remembers how he was captured, how he’s forgotten his own name eventually to have no choice but to be Iulius. He barely remembers his tribe, but knows who has fallen. He remembers their face, remembers looking into their eyes like mirror as the sickle of the Roman Republic fell onto them.

           But they are just children. They forget quickly, easily. They grow past their old wounds, finding comfort in each other. They speak any similar language they know in secret; Francis speaks an odd Latin already, both make new words as they go. They flee Romulus’ villa, tumble in the grass and sand of the seaside of Sicily.

           Aurelius seems so pensive today. Iulius tries to pull him out of this miserable state, throwing a handful of sand on the purple toga he is wearing. Sometimes, the Iberian will feel a little jealous of his Arvern friend. The blonde-haired boy is always covered in gifts, given beautiful things, wonderful meals. Even Romulus seems to favour him, runs his big, callused hands in the boy’s lovely blonde hair. Romans seem to love him. Fair-skinned people are idealized. Sometimes, he hears Romulus grumble about humans, he’s heard the word grooming once. He doesn’t know what it means, doesn’t think it’s good.

           Aurelius, however, loves the attention. Even so young, he revels in being so loved, to know people love him. Unaware of impure desires, the boy simply think he is a charming one. It shows every days; so convinced he is loved, the Arvern is always happy, carefully moving himself to be seen as the angel they all want him to be. Yet today is the first time in a long time Iulius has seen him so silent.

           To try to cheer him up, the little boy presses a kiss to his cheek, rolling them over to stare into his blue eyes. His friend has the most beautiful eyes… Iulius doesn’t think he’ll ever find tender, mischief-filled lavender eyes anywhere else. With another smooch to the Arvern’s soft pink lips, Iulius run his hands into his hair.

           “Why the long face?” he asks, soothed by the sound of the waves as they both settle in each other’s embrace. Iulius’ sun-kissed skin seems to be as warm as the sun itself. Aurelius lays his head on his uncovered chest, blonde hair sprawling all over his skin and the soft, white sand beneath them.

           “No particular reason.” There seems to be something amiss, still. As Aurelius would say, there is an eel hiding under a rock.

           But if Aurelius doesn’t want to speak, Iulius knows better than to poke. Already, he knows too well pains that cannot be spoken. Iulius knows; he sees it in his eyes. He sees this pain in his own eyes when they meet a bronze mirror. He keeps his nose in Aurelius’ hair, eyes closing as he nods. “Alright.”

           But children forget everything easily. After barely a minute more, they roll over each other, sand sticking to their skin as they playfully fight, Iulius’ hands stuck to his fair-haired friend’s sides, making his giggle and laugh until they roll into the waves of the Mediterranean Sea, standing up against one another as they look to the waves. The salty marine breeze makes Aurelius’ hair fly around his face. The water is still cold as this time of the year, they water each other.

           There is nothing but little games for children, they think, going back to the sandy beach to lay into each other’s arms, as if the whole word stopped each time they hold onto one another. Aurelius knows even they won’t last—Mother was such a strong woman, ancient and terrible, yet, she fell. His tiny palm run against Iulius’ sleepy face, baby soft cheek under his fingertips. He does not know what he feels for Iulius yet; inside him is a burning, tender and innocent, grand feeling.

           He has no one quite like him. They were a family before, dozens together, of every ages. And now, he is alone. They call him Gallia as they call Iulius, Iberia. Both names don’t quite fit, but they are children, powerless under the foot of a powerful Empire. Exotic birds kept preciously, yet in a golden cage.

           Aurelius leans in, kissing the Iberian’s sleepy lips again. Childishly, he wishes they could always stay together like this. But his innocence cannot even last through his childhood, the boy knows. Yet, their love is one that cannot be broken, and he knows, each time Iulius looks into his eyes. Whatever the name, whatever destiny they share, love like theirs is one that can be bent and pulled, changed and moulded, yet never broken.

He fears the future, even though he yearns for it. One day, they might be free. Even if the day they are free, they cannot entwine like this, in peace and soft love, Aurelius hopes that he will still be able to look at Iulius’ peaceful sleeping face. He kisses it again, the attention waking the other country with a flutter of eyelashes.

“Aurelius?” he asks, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes as he props himself up with his forearm. Iulius has no ideas of how cute he is, has he? “Is there something you want?”

With another kiss to the boy’s wonderfully round and innocent face, Aurelius shakes his head. “No… I have all I need now.”

And they embrace again, as children, content to be with each other.

_Epilogue_

 

François can’t remember how long it has been since he felt so happy. The sand of la Dominique is warm against his skin, the salty breeze of the Antilles against his skin making him drowsy, purring like a kitten against the sun-kissed, warm skin of the muscular chest under his body. Curled around Antonio is a pleasure like no others, one that has changed over the years, he think, not even daring to open an eye and watch them, tangled between limbs and quickly discarded frocks and tricornes.

           And to say before, they were only boys hugging in comfort, and now, they find themselves with the pleasure of human sin. François remembers all too well the free love of the Celts, the way love was pure there, nothing to hold it back. He feels like himself like this, not having to court any Ladies to please his Kings, who love a womanizer like no one else.

           He too, admits he enjoy to see his Kings as seducers, much like the people. But if he is a seducer, a player in the game of love, he knows he only belongs in Antonio’s arms. The young man is sleepy under him, olive-skin and curly brown hair all around them. François reaches to caress his cheek, in a tender, nostalgic gesture. He can almost see the little boy under him, Iulius, can feel himself come back under his own.

Both Aurelius and Iulius hide under their skins, like private scars no one else knows. François pets his hair, a smile on his lips. Some things never change, he thinks to himself, happy to see, somehow, some of the best stays. That even after all these years, the Aurelius and Iulius who wished to always be together, are still together, even as impossible as if often seemed.

There is no peace like knowing there is a tiny, permanent piece of home somewhere in the world, and that he is pressed against it.

**Author's Note:**

> Arvern/is: You know what’s a Gaul? Roman shit. There was not one Gaul people, but fifty-four tribes of Celtic origin on the territory of France. You know, there was the Cisalpine Gaul, which was on the Italian side of the Alps, and the Transalpine Gaul, on the French side of it. So, Gaul is literally anything. Amongst them, were, obviously, the well-known Vercingetorix’s tribe, the Arvernis, who lived in actual Auvergne. Nowadays it’s a baseball team.
> 
> Vercingetorix: Nope! He didn’t had a mustache. Roman propaganda again. The gold pieces of his time, though probably not a very good source, show him without beard or even long-hair. Born in 80 BC in Auvergne and deceased in 46 BC in Rome, probably assassinated in his own cell, and his considered one of the first leader of the French people. Defeated in the siege of Alesia in 40 BC, he was nonetheless an incredible chief.
> 
> Gauls and Celts: Pushing those two under same category. Gauls were, if you want, the fifty-four Celtic tribes of actual France. They were metallurgists, made lovely barrels and casks, able to even manipulate steel. The image of the hairy barbarian is, obviously, one conveyed by the Romans. Nobles especially, kept their chin and upper lips closely shaven. The hair, however, seems to be vastly considered a good thing. They even had beautiful towns! Celts had no notion of sin and a very liberated sexuality. Soldiers often fought naked and slept together. Druids forbid the people to write, but, Greek historian tell there was no shame to be the passive partner. Women also held an important place in the society.
> 
> Iberia: The Southern Spanish peninsula. Includes Portugal. Iberia had about two dozen of known Celtic-like people, but since the fic is about France, I will let you learn about them. By the way, Portugal’s name would be Augustus if he was to be a colony with spain.


End file.
